ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary
by katherinegrace79
Summary: It was all a muddle. Everything had always been a muddle. Vincent could not escape his demons and even the Doctor and Amy couldn't save him. Not really. Some people just couldn't be saved. [Amy Pond/Vincent Van Gogh]


**Disclaimer:** I do not own Doctor Who, no matter how much I wish it were so. Nor do I own the works of Oscar Wilde or Paul Laurence Dunbar.

* * *

"_No great artist ever sees things as they really are._

_If he did, he would cease to be an artist."_

_**Oscar Wilde**_

* * *

1890

"_Monsieur Van Gogh! Monsieur Van Gogh! You must come quickly – here – it is from the doctor – it is your brother! It is Vincent!"_

Fear.

Anger.

Hopelessness.

The streets of Auvers-sur-Oise disappeared beneath his feet with terrifying speed as he sprinted in his evening clothes towards his brother. He tore into the Auberge Ravoux where his brother had been living (_stay with Johanna and I, brother, we would love to have you_) and the sad, pitying eyes that met him was almost too much. Up and up the stairs he went, taking them steps three at a time, heaving himself up and then there he was –

He need not have hurried. He could have finished his dinner and kissed little Vincent many times over, until his lips were sore and tired, before he departed to take care of his brother in his final hours. Vincent was pale and bloodied in the small cot, the room cramped with tens of painted canvasses of varying sizes propped against every available surface. His brother's chest was wrapped tightly with gauze that was already growing damp and red with Vincent's slick blood.

_Death will be here shortly. We must prepare him._

Last rites. Whispered goodbyes. Silent reflection.

And yet Vincent lingered, hovering between life and death, as he had hovered between madness and sanity his entire life.

Theo stayed and he waited, pressing a cool cloth to Vincent's brow, helping the nurse change his bandages and speaking softly and quietly to his older brother – anything to keep Vincent alive for just a little longer. It was selfish, he knew that. He knew how much Vincent suffered daily, tormented by the demons his own mind had created, which hounded him minute after minute, driving him trembling with confusion and despair but Theo could not bear to lose his brother.

_And yet –_

His breath grew weaker and weaker with each passing hour. Theo sat hunched over his brother's bed, cold, clammy hand clasped between his, tired eyes watching as his brother slipped further away from him. Vincent wavered between lucidity and despair as he had done his whole life; 37 years of bone deep sadness, swirling around him, driving him to pick up his brushes and apply them to canvass, coalescing in those moments of greatness. Theo could scarcely believe that it was all soon to come to an end. He drew his brother's fingers, stained still with the paints he had been using before he had picked up his revolver, and pressed his lips to them.

The letter that had been pressed urgently into his hands at dinner, tearing him away from Johanna and their son, sending him dashing out onto the streets with his heart trying to tear out of his chest, blood running cold through his veins, was resting across his thighs. The quick, urgent writing from the doctor had brought him running and it was now stained with his brother's blood. Johanna had been and gone, bringing little Vincent in order to kiss his uncle goodbye and it broke Theo's heart that his son would only know of his uncle through stories and his paintings.

The light from the lamp cast pallid light throughout the room and tears blurred his vision. He used his free hand to scrub at his face, washing them away, dragging his palm down across his face and over his rough stubble. Theo sighed, shifting only slightly. It was enough, however, to rouse Vincent from his fractured sleep. His brother's eyes flickered with faint life and his dry lips parted. "Theo?"

"Brother." Theo whispered, falling to his knees beside the small cot, clutching Vincent's hand tighter to his chest. The doctor's missive fluttered uselessly to the floor, drifting beneath the bed that bore his brother's dying weight. Vincent's blood had seeped slightly through his bandages and stained his bedclothes with speckles of red. There was little point in changing them again. Vincent would not last until dawn. "Rest. Save your energy."

"Amy..." Vincent murmured, eyes staring past him and, despite himself, Theo turned and looked for the red haired angel of his brother's imaginings. There was no one there. _Of course_. He wished that she was. He wished that she was real and not the figment of his brother's tortured mind. Anyone whom could comfort Vincent in his darkest hour would have been most welcomed by Theo. "My sweet, beautiful Amy..."

Theo brushed Vincent's sweat damp hair from his forehead, fingers lingering in the red tresses. Tears burned at his eyes, remembering Vincent as a child when his hair had been brighter than the sun and he had commanded the days as easily as he had commanded his brother. "Amy isn't here, Vincent. She's gone. Remember?"

"My Amy..." his brother murmured again, head lolling against his pillows. A deep, rattling sigh escaped his body, slick and wet as his blood pulsed into his stained bandages, chest rising and falling deeply once, twice. Lucidity briefly won the day.

"Theo?" Vincent cried, tears slipping beneath his eyelids, dampening his eyelashes, smudging beneath his eyes. He looked pale and hollow and terrified. "Theo? Where are you?"

"I'm here, brother, I'm here." Theo reassured, pressing his lips to his brother's fingers again, murmuring against them. A fresh tear slid down his cheek, his palm resting on the top of Vincent's head as Vincent had done so often when Theo had been small, tripping over himself to chase after his older brother, small fingers reaching out to catch onto the edge of Vincent's coat tails, not wanting to be left out of the fun and games of the older boys.

"_Please,_ rest." Theo begged weakly, selfishly. "Save your energy."

A chair scraped across the stone flagged store in the bar below them. A long moment passed in utter silence before Vincent turned his head and stared at his brother, taking him in. It was as though Vincent was seeing him for the first time in many, many years.

Vincent's eyes blinked slowly, free of the madness that had terrorised him for decades. His hand twitched in Theo's grip.

Theo stared down at him, fear and sadness tightening like iron bands around his chest. His voice choked in his throat and his whisper was hoarse and afraid. "Vincent?"

Vincent sighed so softly that Theo could barely hear his breath. He leaned close to hear his brother's words. "The sadness...lasts forever."

* * *

_He remembers running through open fields,_

_Theo hurrying behind him, calling out "Vincent" and_

_then it all changes and – _

_a flame haired angel smiling at him across the room_

* * *

1890

The silence left behind by the Doctor's departure was surprised and mildly uncomfortable in the way that it always was between two strangers thrown together by peculiar events. Vincent glanced over at Amy and found her watching him, a strange little smile on her lips. He felt himself flush under her gaze and he turned, busying himself with tidying up, acutely aware that a pretty woman was standing in his untidy home. He bustled around, gathering up scraps of parchment and forgotten paintbrushes in an attempt to make his home look more welcoming. He dumped it all into the sink and stepped back into the small room where Amy was closely examining one of his paintings.

His eyes lingered on her now that he was out from under her direct gaze. Her hair was what caught his attention – bright and orange and so very _soft_ looking. He wanted to touch it, to run his fingers through the soft locks and twine them around his fingers, just to verify that it was, indeed, as soft as it looked. Above anything else though, he wanted to paint it; wanted to paint her, commit her to his memory of canvas, immortalising her.

She was unlike any woman he had met before, not least because of her clothing. His eyes dropped to her legs, plaining visible from beneath her coat and the strange sheer material she wore across from them. He found himself flustered by the long stretch of her legs, heat rising in his chest, his throat oddly tight, his mutilated ear pulsing hotly. He shook his head, suddenly conscious of his absent ear, sending his hair falling over the scarred remains and drawing his eyes away from her body.

He could not remember the women of Holland wearing quite such fashion.

There was something else though – something heavy and sad about her. He saw himself in her. The same sadness that covered him with its heavy cloak, suffocating him, threatening to drown him with sorrow. It fluttered about her like small, twisting ribbons, getting caught in her hair and wrapping around her limbs. He ached for her in a way that he had never ached for himself. He wanted to reach out and pull the ribbons away from her, drawing them into their world so that she would be free of the sadness, but it didn't work like that.

_What phantoms fill the dimly lit room;_

_what ghostly shades in awe-creating guise_

_are bodied forth within the teeming gloom._

It _couldn't_ work like that.

Amy reached out and brushed her fingertips very lightly across the surface of his painting, touching lightly the raised oils he used, rubbing them very softly to feel the texture against the soft pads of her fingers. He was touched, tears pricking at the back of his eyes, at the tenderness that she showed his labours. It made him want to grasp her hand and pull her to him, hold her close as he let her gaze upon all of his artwork with the same tenderness that she showed his painting.

"You're very talented." Amy said sincerely, softly, straightening up and looking at him over her shoulder, catching him staring. Her hair fell over her shoulders and caught the light from the lamp.

He flushed again and avoided her eyes. "You are too kind."

A smile stretched across Amy's face. She pushed her hands into the pocket of her teal coat and drew the toe of one boot across his floor. "Reckon we're going to be waiting a while. When the Doctor gets an idea into his head, he – well, he can get a little distracted."

"I find it difficult to believe that a man could be distracted by anything but your beauty in your presence." Vincent heard himself say and he felt himself flush for the third time, colour creeping into his cheeks as Amy's fair skin exploded in the most becoming shade of pink even as her smile crept further across her face, clearly pleased.

"The Doctor...he's not really a man." Amy explained, drawing her bottom lip between her teeth and holding it there before letting it go with a pop.

Vincent's eyes went wide. "Oh. He's a _eunuch_?"

Amy stared at him for a beat before she burst out laughing. It was the most glorious sound he had ever heard and it warmed him right through, edging out the darkness that had been creeping upon him for days, threatening him with another one of his episodes. Amy threw her head back, red hair falling between her shoulders like a waterfall, and she held her stomach as she laughed. Eventually, she managed to control her laughter, stray giggles sneaking out between her words when she spoke.

"No, no, at least, I don't think so." Amy replied, the mirth evident everywhere on her pretty features. "He's just not like other men." Her eyes were bright with amusement. "But please, oh _please_, ask him if he is one!"

Vincent found himself smiling at her, thoroughly charmed.

It took much negotiation before Amy agreed to take his bed and he agreed to sleep on the floor. She had had the terrifyingly modern idea of _sharing _his bed and he had blushed and stammered before eventually managing to put his foot down, nipping that idea firmly in the bud even as his mind exploded with several enticing possibilities. He had intended to sleep on the floor of his living room but Amy had scoffed at that and told him that if the monster came back, she wanted someone who could see it by her _thank you very much_.

And so he had bedded down on his bedroom floor, Amy curled up in his bed, her coat folded neatly on his chair, her boots sitting in front of it. She lay on her side facing him, murmuring to him softly in the dark before her words had petered off and she had fallen asleep, head resting on his pillow. His bedroom was dark with only the light from the moon shining in through the gaps in his shutters. He lay on the floor, one arm tucked beneath his head, listening to Amy's soft, steady breathing.

He looked up at her from the floor. Her red hair was rendered mute and silver in the faint light; she looked like a pale ghost, sleeping and silent, nearly completely still except for the faint rise and fall of her shoulders. He watched her carefully and he matched her breathing, breathing in and out with her, closing his eyes when they were too heavy to keep open and he lulled himself to sleep by watching her, falling asleep with thoughts of her pale skin and her fire kissed hair and strange doctors.

For once, things didn't seem quite so hopeless to him.

* * *

_He remembers welcoming Paul with open_

_threats to tranquillity and his dreams of companionship, dashed –_

_watching him leave, following_

_a razor raised in anger and fear and utter despair_

* * *

1888

Tears streamed down his cheeks. He stumbled over the uneven path in his garden, slipping on a loose rock. His knee scraped against the ground and the pain was short but jarringly good, biting through his agony for the briefest of moments. His hand tightened around the razor, his skin opening on the sharp edge of the blade, his blood running slick through his palm, warming a path down his wrist and beneath the cuff of his shirt. His shoulder hit the front door and he fell inside, falling to his knees, pressing his palms to the ground, the razor skittering away from him.

He opened his mouth and _screamed_, the sound ripping hoarse and angry from his throat.

The dream of an artist colony shattered around him. He banged his fists against the ground, skin ripping on his knuckles, his forehead pressed harshly against the ground as he sobbed, Paul's voice imploring him to _calm down_ and return home pressing into his mind. The darkness was wrapping around him and the pain flowed through him. He collapsed, body curling in on itself. His head throbbed and his palm, slick with blood and matted with dirt, ached. His tears dripped onto the flagstone floor, mixing with the blood that he left imprinted there.

_What echoes faint of sad and soul sick cries,_

_and pangs of vague inexplicable pain_

Vincent stayed on the ground, shaking and trembling as his demons took hold of him and made him _ache_ with madness. The pain rushed through him, the madness tumbling through his body until he was on his feet, snatching the razor up from the ground and then he gripped his earlobe and he cut. He cried out as he sliced his ear off, mutilating the flesh there, his hair all aflutter from the fight with Paul and from his despair; his reflection in the window showed his wild, mad eyes, lips pulled back over his teeth in a snarl as the madness flowed through his fingers and formed one quick, brutal action.

_that pay the spirit's ceaseless enterprise,_

_come thronging through the chambers of the brain_

Something went wrong –

the blood flowed quickly from his ear and his head spun.

He dropped the razor blade from between suddenly nerveless fingers and braced himself against the window, staring at his darkened reflection. The blood ran slickly down his neck, hiding beneath his shirt and he just stared, watching it happen.

It was all a muddle. Everything had always been a muddle.

Towels staunched the bleeding briefly. He wrapped a torn shirt around his head with trembling hands, reverently picking up his discarded ear and tenderly placing it in an old newspaper, wrapping it with great care. His body shook as he drew on his coat and he left his home, blood drying on the floor and the window, towels soaked with the crimson liquid left to dry stiff and hard on the floor.

– _later, Rachel screamed when she unwrapped the parcel the mad artist had pressed into her hand_

– _the street rushed up to meet him and he thought, yes, now, he would have to...Paul would have to come back now –_

Theo tried to hold him together with his bare hands and love when Vincent realised that Paul would not visit him in the hospital; that he would never see his friend again.

His dreams sat broken at his feet and he wept, never having felt more alone.

* * *

_If only all monsters turned out not to be monsters,_

– _scared and alone, I'm afraid, I'm afraid –_

_stones pelting through the air,_

_hurting less than his own mind._

* * *

1890

The Doctor ambled away, babbling on about fixing something on the TARDIS whilst he looked at Amy closely, raising his eyebrows at her. Vincent pretended not to notice the interaction, pretended not to notice how close Amy stood to him, their fingers still knotted together. Only when the Doctor was a speck in the distance did Amy turn to him, the bright night sky casting a pleasing light over her. Her thumb brushed over the back of his hand and she looked almost nervous. He felt a great swell of affection for the woman and they walked back to his home in silence, their hands joined between them, Vincent constantly aware of the brush of her arm against his and his own heavy, inelegant moves.

"Why am I sad, Vincent?" Amy asked him when they were standing in his home, the kettle slowly boiling on his stove. Her coat had been removed, her scarf placed on top of it, and she looked small and vulnerable and impossibly sad.

Vincent stared at her. "If I knew that, my sweet Amy, I would not be the man that I am."

Amy's hand shook lightly. "I feel – I feel as though I'm missing something but I don't know what and it makes me sad."

"Amy..."

"What do you see, Vincent?" Amy demanded, eyes bright, face lined with faint desperation and she took half a step towards him. He closed the distance between them and brushed her hair from her face. It was just as soft as he had imagined.

"_So much_..." Vincent whispered, eyes fluttering over her, hands twitching in the air around her, fingers stretching for the ribbons that danced around her body. "There are ribbons, around you, dancing and twirling in the breeze...beautiful ribbons of all the colours of the world –"

"And they're why I'm sad?" She asked, enraptured.

Vincent's mouth dried, his hands falling uselessly to his side. "No – no, I don't think so. I – I see something, at your shoulder, a person maybe – someone you're missing. I think...I think that's why you're sad."

Amy's eyes filled with tears. She pressed her hand softly to his face, thumb stroking through the red bristle of his beard. "I wish I could help you, Vincent."

"My sweet Amy." He murmured, turning his head and daring to place a kiss against the centre of her palm. Her skin was as soft as her hair. "I fear that I am beyond help."

"Don't say that." Amy whispered, tears slipping down her cheeks. She shifted closer. He could smell her hair, feel the warmth of her breath against his mouth. Her fingers slipped into the ends of his hair and gripped. "Please don't say that."

"Oh, Amy..." Vincent sighed, hardly daring to breathe as Amy brushed her lips once over his, so lightly that they almost weren't touching. "I hadn't dared to hope."

_She was so beautiful._

"Make me happy, Vincent." Amy pleaded with him, eyes as wild and as desperate as his. "Make me forget."

He raised his hands, reverent and steady. He cupped her face and marvelled at her. "My dear, sweet Amy." He kissed her once, softly, body alight at her touch. "I shall do my utmost."

Amy choked on something that sounded like a sob and she fell into him, arms wrapping around him and Vincent kissed her, losing himself in her as he had so often lost himself in his madness.

* * *

"_Van Gogh is the finest painter of them all –"_

_his works, his tortured life, marvelled at by thousands_

_tears of joy, vindication_

_a new dawn at last_

* * *

1890

_Enough_.

He had had enough.

Vincent scrambled through his desk, his demons raging in his head, memories of the Doctor, of _Amy_, faded to almost nothing. His fingers curled around the handle of his revolver and he sobbed, a wail of grief coursing through him.

He fled through the streets, towards the field where he had been painting, the afternoon sun warm and welcoming. It would be a nice place – a nice place to sleep.

He raised his revolver –

– he could not even kill himself properly.

* * *

_Ah, then, no more we heed the sad world's cries,_

_or seek to probe th' eternal mystery,_

_or fret our souls at long withheld replies,_

_at glooms through which our visions cannot see,_

* * *

2010

Amy took the Doctor's offered hand and he helped her over the gate. They could easily have visited during the day but the TARDIS had her own ideas and so they were left to break into the cemetery. She let go of the Doctor's hand when she was on her own feet and avoided his eyes. She had not told him of what had taken place between her and Vincent (_because why would she?_) but despite how he liked to portray himself, he wasn't daft.

It was easy, finding what they were looking for.

The path was well trod.

Those who loved his work had made a pilgrimage to his final resting place and the Doctor and Amy walked the same path.

_Ici repose_

_Vincent Van Gogh_

_1853 – 1890_

Despite knowing what they would find, the finality of his grave hit Amy harder than she had expected. She closed her eyes and summoned up the memory of his hands on her, his lips kissing hers, remembering the way his body had moved over her, _in _her, and the sound of his desperate, ragged breathing in her ear when she had lifted her leg and –

"Amy?" The Doctor asked, voice hesitant. He touched his hand to her shoulder and her eyes snapped open, a half-sob catching in her throat. The Doctor turned tender. "Oh, Amelia." He drew her into his arms and she pressed her face into his shoulder.

"I thought we helped him." Amy muttered against the tweed. The Doctor rubbed a hand soothing over her back and she felt tired and so very safe in the circle of his arms. "But he still – he still _killed_ himself."

He kissed her temple and stared up at the night's sky. He chose his words carefully, extremely conscious that Amy was particularly vulnerable. He thought of Rory and the deep, lasting impression that he had made on her that could not be erased simply by the fact of not existing.

"The way I see it," the Doctor said softly, brushing her long red hair back, her forehead pressed against his neck. "Life is a pile off good things and bad things. The good things don't always soften the bad things, _but_, vice versa, the bad things don't always spoil the good things and make them unimportant."

Amy sniffed against his throat. "You think we were a good thing?"

"I think we were a very good thing for Vincent." The Doctor replied. "I think we added to his pile of good things and gave him a few good days that he might not have otherwise had."

Amy sighed. "I wish – I wish that we could have saved him."

The Doctor pressed his lips against her head and breathed in the smell of her hair, suddenly feeling very ancient. "Maybe we did. In a small way, maybe we did save him."

"Doesn't make this any easier." Amy said quietly after a long minute of silence, her fingers playing with his bow tie. He smoothed his hand down her back, firm and reassuring.

He smiled sadly. "It never does. Not really."

They stayed for a while longer before they turned to leave, climbing over the gate. Amy reached out and took the Doctor's hand as they walked towards the TARDIS. She glanced at him, a spark of mischief in her eyes. "He thought you were a eunuch, you know."

The Doctor's mouth dropped open and Amy laughed, pulling her hand from his and running.

He stared after her before making chase, the two of them tumbling into the TARDIS, laughing as they did so.

* * *

_Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes_

_**Paul Laurence Dunbar**_


End file.
